Having survived the night relatively intact, we awoke to a bright sun-shiney day and the sounds of Romania. Some undisclosable delays were encountered which pushed back the whirling hands of time. Of course, we had to make arrangements for Azorel to end up in a friendly home rather than risk a roadkill incident during the journey.

So, much later than planned, we finally hit the road toward Targu Jiu.

But it’s not like you just step outside the front door and plop out your thumb. Nossir, strap on that 10-ton backpack which, by magically weighing a three to four times the weight of its contents, proves the notion that the whole is indeed more than the sum of its parts. Now, even though your feet are blistered, you must march umpteen kilometers from the center of town to the very outskirts of city limits.

It was a foarte cald day and the intrepid duo felt fairly leneş. Given the circumstance, perhaps you can understand why we ducked into the last magazin on the strada for a bottle of water şi ingheţata.

A moment of crisis arose when I spotted a 2 liter bottle of Alutus beer, but ultimately I realized I didn’t want carry that much extra weight across half of Romania when my straps were already starting to fray. Plus, I could always just pick a bottle up on the way back.

We stood on DN67 about a hundred yards inside of the OMV which marked the boundary of where Ramnicu Valcea ended, exchanging curious stares with the multitudes of “poor people” in Romania’s “bad economic environment” who comprised an endless stream of brand new Mercedes-Benz luxury cars and BMW sports sedans.

A rambling silver Dacia beeped its horn to wake us up 15 minutes later as it began to pull over. Yes! Chasing the brakelights, we caught up pretty quick with the family inside. Tati was at the wheel and mama in the passenger seat. Junior moved out of the dangerously unseatbelted center and made room for us to climb in after a brief pauza to place the bags in the trunk.

In spite of the presence of religious artifacts, I’m not entirely sure if the family worshipped three gods or 17. Where I to venture a guess, I’d say various faces staring down at me from the visors, rearview mirror, and ceiling were beseechings for such tutelaries as Christopher, Gertrude, George, Mary, some unrecognizables and possibly also Jesus.

I tried not to become overly nervous of the thought that so many various deities were being invoked to battle for over whom would protect it me; it was a little dizzying to be around so many halos. Lemonmouse made some small conversation about our recent fun in Calimaneşti and how we were going to Tismana for a different festival populare.

And then it was my turn to practice a little romaneşte. Our friendly hosts smiled broadly as I struggled with some of the words, but with a little traduceri here and there they seemed to understand. And, of course, came the obligatory discussion of Texas and George Bush.

“You know, that Bush, he’s doing the right thing in Iraq and Afghanistan. He should go to Iran and Syria next,” exclaimed the driver. “We need to kill off every one of those damn muslims.”

Well, praise be. How do you deal with that? The driver grinned at me through the rearview mirror anticipating my agreement. I looked up at the Christian artifacts pincushioned to the ceiling liner. “Bush is the kind of president I would like to like. He’s certainly doing well in some areas, but there are many problems as well.”

From there the conversation turned to Bill Clinton. Then Hillary Clinton. John McCain. Ion Illiescu. Adrian Nastase. Traian Basescu. And the whole gamut of politics, from Putin to Saddam. We somehow managed to keep things friendly by poking a few jokes at just about everyone. I eased into my seat feeling a bit more comfortable.

As the young son frequently stared at my distinctly different facial features, our group discussed some of the finer points of Romanian geography, economic realities, and tourist sights. We stopped at Horezu along the way to inspect some of the fine wares from local merchants.

The ride in the Dacia progressed a little slowly, but I really felt that — despite some political and religious differences — these were really great everyday people. We had a fun time continuing our conversations about the future of Romania and the natural wonders it has to offer both natives and visitors alike.

As we entered the city limits of Targu Jiu, our host family was kind enough to inquire if we wanted to stop briefly at the Infinite Column made by Constantin Brancusi. Um, yes, please! And thank you.

They pulled over at a park on the eastern edge of town and let me scramble out to snap a photo or two of this rather impressive and intriguing piece of art work.

Around the time the security guard came over to wave his finger at me, I noticed the family was no longer in the park with me. I thought this police officer was going to harass me about some faux pas I had made, but he was merely trying to direct me to an English language descriptive sign located a couple dozen meters away.

Worried about where my ride (and bag) was, I hustled over to speedread the sparse information the sign offered. The security guard had lumbered after me, so when I turned around I was a bit surprised to find he was just near me. I forced an uneasy smile and said mulţumesc. “Cu placere.”

Beep, beep, beeeeeeep. A car horn. Run!

I made a dash for the edge of the park and, just as I arrived at the street, I saw the family inside their Dacia eager to continue their trip home. They had no intention of abandoning me, but I realized perhaps I had overstayed my welcome outside the silver confines of my ride. Fortunately, they were polite enough smile and wave me inside.

They took us deeper inside the city of Targu Jiu, talking rapidly about the various landmarks and points of interest along the way. I comprehended much of it (certainly more than in the past) but it was really directed at Lemonmouse, being a native of Romania.

The father was courteous enough to ask where we were going and offered to take us to the best place considering their own destination. We pulled over at the main park in the centru and he leapt out to free my bag from the trunk.

I worked the straps over each shoulder, suddenly feeling twice my normal weight again. Having kept the back door open, I leaned in to thank the mother for her hospitality. Then I shook the young man’s hand and saw the dad swell with pride that I’d respected his kid.

Lemonmouse asked about the best way to find the road to Tismana. With both his words and motions, I understood completely. Either go around the park or through it, but end up on that road over there towards the right. Go down a ways and turn right again. There you should be able to find another ride the rest of the way.

A few thank yous and 15 RON later, we headed into the park to see some of Brancusi’s other famous abstract scupltures: the Gate of the Kiss and the Table of Silence.

After stopping to ponder the style and significance of these works, Lemonmouse and I headed out of the park and across a bridge overlooking an absolutely filthy manmade canal with it’s floating PET boats. Hurrying to avoid the stench, we found ourselves walking in a decrepit neighborhood where drunk Romanians and dirty Roma stared us as if we were from Mars, lost on the way to Pluto.

Wanting to confirm our path, we decided to speedwalk in order to catch a frail old woman who was carrying two large, heavy bags some distance ahead of us. Being somewhat youthful, it shamed us to realize that we wouldn’t be able to catch her in a block. Or two. She was really scooting along.

An embarrassing distance later, we managed to saddle up alongside this shell of a human. She confirmed that we need only continue walking another couple/few kilometers to reach the intersection where we would turn right.

But she clucked disapprovingly and repeatedly lectured us on how we should go back the way we came in order to catch a proper bus because only a fool would keep on walking so far. Besides, did we know how far away Tismana was? Tourists, bah.

For the sake of brevity, my friends, let us agree that we made it to the intersection in question, turned right, and saw that just another two blocks ahead was a great void in civilization where we would need to indicate our willingness to ride with whomever might fancy strangers on board. Fortunately, the corner was host to a refreshment stand where we could reinvigorate our stamina.

And lemme tell y’all whut. This here beer? I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, but that ol’ Haţegana wuddn’t half bad. Matter of fact, I reckon I was fixin ta sleep me under that there keg, I tell you whut. S’got some might powerful hops for this neck of the woods. Boy howdy.

Guess who just qualified for Camptionatul Mondial de Bere? Mmmhmmm. We’ll worry about the details later, but there’s no way Haţegana can be left out. Ditto for Alutus.

Refreshed and ready for action, we moseyed on past the couple of hitchhiking folks who represented our competition. The bags came off and kicked up a little dust from the force of their gravity. Out came the sign, upon which I’d hastily scribbled “Tismana.” We watched as a couple other people got picked up, but we didn’t wait too long.

A rather odd-looking white van pulled up to let some professionally dressed woman in her late 50’s enter through the side door panel. The driver motioned at me as if to ask, “where are you going?” So, I pointed to the sign which was already held aloft for him to read had he bothered. He waved us to come join the circus. And we did.

I’m not exactly sure what the peanut-chomping, sweaty, middle-aged man and his apparent wife, dressed in a nunnery outift, were up to really, but I can say we were happy to be given a lift in the late afternoon. The back end of the van was replete with blanket covered benches, a spare tire, refridgerator, and bedroom linen.

We sat opposite the professional lady as the van struggled to get underway. A little conversation was tried but between the grinding of gears and whining strain of the engine, we gave up hope of any lasting discussions. Small talk was yelled loudly and mostly consisted of did she know about the festival in Tismana we were trying to find. She didn’t.

The driver instructed us to keep the roof ventilator open, before he shut the window to the cabin and left us with the putrid aroma of kerosene and sulpher. Lemonmouse noticed the rubber soles of her shoes were beginning to melt from the heat of the metal box that must have held the transmission.

I’m not sure how soon exactly it was that I noticed this particular van was fighting to make any distance at all. I felt like we might never arrive anywhere around the time I saw an elderly disabled man on a bicycle pass us on the road to Tismana.

While that particular event may not have ever really happened, I can say I was tempted to get out and push during the several times the road had an incline steeper than 6 or 7 degrees.

Unfortunately, we were in fairly remote country without too much traffic and it probably would have been unwise to get out early. So we hung in for the duration and paid 5 RON once reaching the outskirts of Tismana.

We were back on our feet again, straddled down under the oppressive weight of our baggage and trying to make sense of our rural village surroundings. A group of partiers at the roadside bar seemed to find endless entertainment at the very sight of us. We realized there must only be one way to go and thus headed down what appeared to be the main road.

Along the way, we asked an old man where the centru was. He looked at each of us, up and down, before replying that it was a good five kilometers down the road from where we were. Then snorted and wandered off.

I made sure to grant a friendly “buna seara” to all the elderly people, sitting on the edge of their property as is the custom, who stared at us as we passed along the way. Each time, they suddenly smile, nodded, and returned the greeting.

A couple of very loud, but sober, women were swinging what appeared to be brooms in the air as they approached us. I prompted Lemonmouse to ask them about the centru and the festival.

They were a little dumbfounded as they explained there was no centru really, but perhaps we meant the police station some distance ahead. As for the festival, they snickered at our misfortune.

It had already taken place a week ago. Were crazy tourists or just stupid foreigners? Our attempts to elicit empathy for having trusted the Romanian Ministry of Tourism only garnered us a few shrugs as if to say, “Yeah, those clowns in Bucureşti are out of touch and always get things wrong.”

It was the first moment of indecision. If the festival was over already, what are we doing here? Should we keep going farther into the remote village or head back for the highway. I thought we should at least continue a little further in order to see the city center and as we walked on the sun began to set.

It didn’t take too many more kilometers to reach the central area of the village. There, as promised, was the police station. There were also a couple of closed stored and what looked like it used to be a hotel.

I offered a solution to the predicament. “Let’s get a beer and talk about our options.”

Entering the first bar, all the chitchat of the locals came to a halt as they stared at us in wonder. We approached the bartender as she swallowed her cheeky grin. The umbrellas outside had advertised Haţegana and I was in the mood for another round.

But they didn’t have any Haţegana la halba, nor in sticla, or even PET (since I was depraved enough to ask). We left so the Tismana natives would feel comfortable talking once again.

No doubt they spent the next two hours speculating as to what we were doing there, where we might be from, and how much money we might have had.

Not too far away was another little bar. They might not have had Haţegana on tap, but they did have bottles. We parked ourselves.

One beer each was enough to let the sun disappear. With nowhere to go, I embraced the darkness by demanding a second round.

The owner (or owner’s wife) engaged us in a little local curiousity. She (and everyone) wanted to know what we were doing in Tismana, where did we come from, where were we going, and where were we planning to sleep.

Upon discovering our lackidaisical uncertainty, she admonished us for trusting the government for information about festivals and then mentioned that there was a monastery another 5 klicks down the road.

She didn’t know the price, but she felt certain they would have room for us. Plus, they had the only restaurant around for miles. The darkness turned into full nighttime.

We paid our bill, hit the restrooms, and stepped just outside the legal boundaries of the bar. Now, it was time to decide what was next…

After witnessing the first event of the day, we took our time wandering down the road a bit until we found some lackidasical police offers half-pretending to direct traffic to halt for crossing pedestrians and joined those brave folks on their way to the Casa de Cultura in Calimaneşti, just outside of Ramnicu Valcea in Oltenia, Romania.

I dare say, after all this hot sun and apples malarkey, it was about time for some real food, dontcha think? I surely did. It was for this reason that I moseyed down the inclining asphalt that lead into the park encircling the Casa de Cultura where the vendors lay in wait for an unsuspecting captive market to extinguish their hunger and thirst pangs.

And thank the lucky stars they existed, too. Mmm mmm mmmm. The mouthwatering scent of barbeque, albeit not Texan, and draft beer was in the air. For a couple of road-weary culturepreneurs, this was a divine signal to partake in a consumer frenzy.

In our hurry, we bypassed the Alutus beer kiosk and headed toward the big mititei gratar under the big yellow Bergenbier awning. Our inquisition revealed they were selling grilled chicken, which is great for folks who don’t eat pork like myself. I opted for a chicken leg and cartofi prajiţi (french fries). Lemonmouse was keen on a couple mici cu muştar şi paine.

For the uninitiated, mici (smalls) is synonymous with mititei (smalls). Don’t ask me why, but the words are completely interchangeable. It’s basically ground pig meat in the shape of a hotdog or sausage. Mici is commonly served with mustard and bread. If you’re a foreigner, you might be tempted to slather your mici with mustard and place it on the bread in a style reminiscent of hotdogs, but the local will eat mici dipped in muştar and then clean up any remaining mustard with paine separately.

Mici at the Bergenbier kiosk were selling for 1,5 RON a piece. My chicken was a full 5 RON and fries were 2 RON. Bergenbier was on tap for 3 RON per plastic cup, but delicious as it was we didn’t bite. Wanting to partake in the elusive local beer Alutus from Ramnicu Valcea, we headed next door to the blue awning kiosk and ordered a couple beers.

Alutus was goin for only 2 RON per plastic cup. Quite the bargain, nu? Yeah, well, I realiased a few minutes too late that the Alutus stand was also selling mititei, but at a lower price of only 1 RON each complete with mustard and paine. Doh!

Fortunately, my self-admonishment did not transpire for long as the beer was outstanding. It had an usually hoppy flavor compared to so many bland Romanian beers. I took a seat at a picnic bench not far from the blessed beer stand and started in on my pui cu paine.

Never in my entire life have I ever found a chicken-leg shaped object so entirely devoid of meat. This thing was as tough as platinum armor with absolutely nothing but thrice-grilled skin and bones. Oh, it looked impressive, but inside it was only greazzy skin particles, hard bone, and a few pieces of ligament gristle.

I picked off what ounce or two of meat-like substance there seemed to be and left the rest of the dry overcooked rubbish in a pile. Thankfully, I had ordered some fries, so between those and the bread I managed some semblence of sustinance. Meanwhile, my compadre happily filled up on the mici.

Some point after eating and two or three fantastic Alutus beers la halba, I noticed that a nearby popcorn vendor was attracting some attention. I grabbed my lens and managed to get this shot of their popcorn machine blazing away in an inferno that was easily three times higher that the moment I clicked the shutter.

After that burning episode where a dozen people argued over how to best stop the flames that roared for several minutes, I was able to turn my attention back to the stage as a new performer stepped up front and center. A fragile boy in traditional clothes and a straw hat took the microphone alone to sing an old, emotional song for the crowd.

Disappointly, the poor guy received barely any applause for his touching performance. Maybe it was because the song was long and slow, with substantial acoustic interludes. Maybe it was because he sang painful lyrics using a high-pitch in Hungarian. I felt bad becasue I thought he did fantastic, not only due to the gumption it took to get up and actually perform the tune.

I decided to leave the audience and walk to the side of the stage after his act in order to do approach him. Without having a more sophisticated manner by which to start, I simply blurted out, “Tanulas angolul?” His eyes big as saucers, he waggled his hand in that seemingly universal sign for kinda-sorta-maybe.

“Okay, because nam tudok magyarul.” It took all his willpower to keep from bursting out laughing at that one. I used small words and a little bit of gesturing to communicate my point to him. To avoid playing the race card, I essentially said I had felt bad the people drank too much beer in the sun and were too sleepy to properly clap for him. I wanted to let him know that he was a very impressive singer.

He seemed very flattered and confused getting attention. I shook his hand and wished him luck before leaving him with his shoulders a bit straighter and his smile a bit broader. His dozen or so staring friends probably gushed over the encounter forcing him to explain the details after I was gone.

Now, where were these people hiding the baie around here?

Newsflash to Romanian municipal officials: signage is an exciting, new concept in public administration! By golly, you’ll feel great exercising caesar-like powers in authorizing a few bucks in local funds to be spent on improving your burgh without need the involvement of those smug national types. It’s easy — give it a try today.

Allow me to press upon you yet another point: dear Romanians (and Hungarians and just about most of the world), there is no such thing as a water closet. Thou doth mayeth well spake unto us in Shakespearian English, because “WC” was last used by the non-royal English speaking world back in 1748.

It’s not a water closet. Nor “the closet.” Particularly, if you want to pretend you know English to any degree. A closet is a storage space where one typically hangs one’s clothes or puts away one’s shoes in the bedroom. But don’t worry, I’m here with some friendly help. The most common expression is to call the facilities a bathroom, as in “the bathroom is down the hall and second door on the left.”

Yes, for the inquisitive, bathroom does imply there might be a shower or bathtub inside. However, it remains the most generic term. If you feel like being a bit more particular in implying the lack of bathing accoutrements or need to appear more refined when eating at a restaurant with business guests, then you may refer to it as a restroom, as in “Pardon me, where is the restroom?” To say “the men’s room” or “the ladies’ room” are acceptable alternatives.

To refer to it as “the toilet” is a bit crude and conjures up unsavory images in the English-speakers mind. However, it is quite acceptable as a baseline reference when speaking to travellers because at least they know what it is. Toileta also works because that term can appeal to a number of languages, when in doubt as the origin of your guests.

At no point should you label it WC or call it the closet. We have no idea what you’re talking about, unless we’ve spent considerable time travelling before and gotten used to this abuse of language. Sure, we’ll adapt and eventually figure out what you might possibly be talking about, but I’m just trying to help out the few of you who want to talk like a real person.

Bathroom is most general term, applicable to anywhere. Restroom is a gentler term when out in public. Toilet and toileta are crude, but understandable. That’ll set you well with the overwhelming majority of us who speak American, but our British and Australian friends in the minority are probably most happy if you call it “the loo.” Don’t ask me; I’ve no idea where it comes from.

Tip for new travellers: Look for signs that say “WC,” when you need to relieve yourself. Since there probably won’t be much in the way of signs when you get as far east as Romania, you might need to get a pen and paper in order to write down “WC.” Show that to someone and, if they’ve any sense about them, they’ll direct you to the bathroom. Better yet, always learn this important word in the local language: baie (buy-yea).

With the Cultural House being the only fixed structure around for some distance, that seemed like the logical place to find the bathroom. Milling about inside were several costumed teenagers busy flirting with each other, comparing cell phones, or painting their manicured nails. A couple old men sat in the middle of foyer as if they might be “in charge” of things.

When asked, the pointed to the right indicating restrooms were in that direction. However, after taking one step, they animatedly pointed in another direction to what was now the left. Pivoting and taking another step generated more gesturing that once again pointed back to the right. Calling on the spirit of Davy Crockett, I adventured to the right with confidence and successfully stumbled into the baie.

Armed with a fresh beer, I found myself back on the small park hill looking down toward the temporary stage which had been constructed for the folk festival in Calimaneşti. There were many acts during the evening and night. Between fresh pours of Alutus, I managed to snap a shot or two of some.

Here’s an ethnic hungarian trio that played exceptionally well.

I figure this guy was looking out for a lover to take home, because he certainly had no recognizable interest in the actual festival itself but preferred listening to the one or two low quality songs stored on his mobile.

Dancers

This picture isn’t especially well-focused, but I wanted to include it anyway. This ethnic Romanian duo were very entertaining in a Simon & Garfunkel meets 17th century Romania sort of way.

I thought the dancers from Olt county had the best evening performances. Here two of them re-enacted a routine based on courting rituals (and I assume it was based on performances played out in the past hundreds of years when villages used these dancing festivals as a basis for pairing up men and women in matrimony, among other things).

First the woman performs some dances while the man walks to and fro, behind her, inspecting her figure and movements. He shakes his head disapprovingly and occassionaly gestures the western shrug as if to question what could be special about her.

Fear not my feminist friends, for attitude is a two way street. When the guy takes his turn to demonstrate his machismo and skill, the woman scuttles back and forth, arms impertinently on her hips in disapproval. As she inspects his body and style, she shakes her and clucks negatively.

It was a cute performance the old people seemed to like, even if the younger ones didn’t get it.

These young Oltenian dancers were waiting in a field.

The older Oltenian women were dancing the hora.

The best show of the evening were the men from Olt who danced up a storm to great music, while featuring their youngest dancer as the star of the performance and finishing off with a man wearing a rare, traditional Romanian monster mask dancing along with the group.

The Turks took the stage later that night and, once again, were huge crowd pleasers. The audience got quite worked up by the dancing and music. For everyone, the highlight of their act was when two guys came out dressed like a camel — that got the crowd roaring with laughter.

After that, it wasn’t long before the show was ending and it was becoming late. Time for those who don’t want to sleep near a garbage dumpster to find a ride out of this one-horse town. We did our best to walk straight down the highway that ran directly through the middle of the town, got some help from a Roma prostitute, and managed to find someone willing to stop at this late hour.

A mother and her adult son got us to Valcea around midnight with my needing to participate in any conversations. 5 RON later, we were walking the streets in search of something to eat. Both us knew where to go.

Tip for travellers to Ramnicu Valcea: eat at Simpatico. It’s a non-stop fast food place that most people and all the taxis know. They offer a decent variety of foods, but I’ve not memorized the menu because I’m only there for one thing. Yup, the kebap. The gals workin’ there will whip you up one right quick. Delicious.

Having finally gotten some food into my system it was time to sleep somewhere. Lemonmouse had arranged for an apartment where we were welcome to spend the night. On the way there, just outside Simpatico, I befriended a pup who was timid but interested in me. After a little of the extra kebap me, the little guy was in love and followed me everywhere.

Except into the taxi cab. I had to pick him to get him inside. The driver groaned and thought we were nuts, but Azorel came with us all the way to the apartment, upstairs, and inside. A little kebap meat and a bowl of water made this dog feel like he was in heaven after living on the mean streets of Ramnicu Valcea.

Yeah, we sort of adopted him for the night. Of course, we couldn’t really keep taking him on the road. So, the next day, after talking to some people we knew, we had him hooked up with a nice little girl who happily promised to take good care of Azorel at her grandmother’s village home.

And then it was time to hit the road…

On our first day, we had finally left Braşov just after 11am and made it to Calimaneşti around 16pm, slightly late for a festival which we knew started at three. Sure enough, at the very centru of the very small town was a nice looking hotel with hundreds of people out front most of whom were in costume.

The first thing I noticed was a heavy police presence, which I am certainly not accustomed to. Cops seemed to be crawling over the place like ants on candy. I snapped a couple photos.

There were another couple dozen police milling about this small affair, some of whom were the communitara dressed in black commando outfits with large semi-automatic rifles. Although I found the number of police to be extraordinarily high, I should point out there was no menacing feeling in the air as a result of the authoritarian swarm. The police were casually observant and seemed to be enjoying themselves while guarding against pickpockets and the like.

A tip for travellers: Don’t kill yourself trying to show up exactly on time to Romanian events. I’m slowly building a pile of evidence that shows Romanian event organizers generally like to give long speeches before any activity takes place. Not only that, but they seem to be occassionally indebted to other society players and hence feel obligated to let those people give long speeches as well.

I felt bad for all the young adults and kids dressed up in their regional attire standing under the brutal oppression of a rather hot soare, while the various speakers prattled on endlessly. The contents of the speeches were good stuff: unity, diversity, tolerance, acceptance and the like. It’s just that each person seemed to repeat the same things as the last speaker and the kids stopped paying attention over an hour ago.

I had positioned myself on an elevated patio running lengthwise across the hotel. This seemed to give me both a better view from slightly above as well as some shady relief from the sun. Once the nearly two-hours of speeches were finished, the real event got underway with a hurried bang.

Onlookers in the audience rushed for better views and quickly piled up in front of my location. This blocked my view of the first dancing set and ruined most of my shots. Here is the best one left featuring the guys wearing the black lambs wool caciula (kah-CHOO-lah), which is my favorite of all the Romanian hats, and ladies wearing the camaşa increţita blouse. I believe they may have been from Argeş.

Realizing I’d end up with photographs if I didn’t move, I abruptly left my perch in mid-dance and took up a new position about 180-degrees from where I had been, as there was the tiniest of openings in the packed crowd of entralled onlookers. I stood directly between the proud elderly people who loudly applauded the preservation of culture and the immature teenagers giggling in disbelief at this non-MTV style of music and dancing.

From my new vantage point, I had a much better chance to freezeframe moments of this rural, traditional festival with its amazing variety of Romanian traditional clothing. I also had the wherewithall to realize I attracted a fair amount of my attention, being one of the two only tourists in the town and certainly the only with a huge lens strapped to my camera.

Now, the dancing was apparently part of a judged competition. At the top of the hotel stairs, the organizers, judges and local dignitaries stood looking directly down at the active dancing group to note each performance carefully. Hence, the dancers would move themselves directly in view of the judges.

This was a poor choice on the part of the organizers because it resulted in the dancers having their backs to the audience the overwhelming majority of the time. Depending on the style of dances, the audience would get to see maybe as much as 35% face time while other troupes never turned around at all, leaving us only their backsides. Pity the judges hadn’t made better arrangements.

The next group was from Harghita and had a lot of boot-slapping footwork for the men, while the women twirled their black and red striped dresses. I’m pretty sure they were comprised of mostly ethnic Hungarians. Possibly Szekely.

It was hard to keep track of where the various groups were from, but it appeared to be a judeţ-on-judeţ level competition. Here are more dancers in traditional outfits from largely ethnic Romanian counties. This next group may possibly be from the Sibiu area. In the first picture, the women spin and twirl as the men jump kick into the air, extending their right leg fully up to shoulder level and slap their boots. Impressive stuff.

This group is from the Olt judeţ (county/province). Their costumes made extensive use of beads, tassles and feathers. While they may not have been the most acrobatic, they were certainly among the most colorful bunch and had some rhythmic chants.

The next group had the shortest dancing set. Plus they never turned around even once, which meant poor photographic opportunities. I’m not exactly sure which judeţ they are from, but I am reasonably confident they originate from the Muntenia region.

Sadly, I am once again unsure of where this next group hails from. Their costumes look similar to ones seen in Buziaş of the northern Banat area, but they may very well be from Dolj in Oltenia as well. That’ll learn me to write things down, instead of assuming I’ll remember. Anywho, these folks had bright color costumes and a beautiful dance routine that I would have ranked 2nd best of the competition.

There was a great group of little kids. They looked very cute in their costumes and had a surprisingly good dance set, even if they didn’t get much face time with the crowd. I think they were probably not from too far away, given their age. Possibly Gorj, but I can’t be certain.

I’m not certain if the next group was from the Muntenia region, but I do know they easily had the best choreographed dance routine and high-spirited dance music of the entire festival. Everyone seemed faily captivated by their amazing performance as the violins, cellos, and accordians of live musicians blazed away in the late afternoon sun.

Then game some guests from Grecia, who came to demonstrate an example of traditional Greek dancing. The dance capitan was a very experienced artisan and the music was quite nice. I think the Romanian audience seemed to enjoy the show.

Throughout all the speeches and dancing festivities, there had been a palpable tension lingering in the air over the presence of Turks. It seems as though the Calimaneşti locals wondered who in the world would invite Turkish dancers to a Romanian festvial and why. Not to mention, wasn’t it curious these people din Turcia bothered to show?

Not quite hostile, but definitely tense and intently peculiar.

As their time to dance came closer, the Turks began to increasingly display an air of discipline, confidence, and pride. The looked and felt every part the experienced professional about to conquer the hearts of audience with their skill. The men came out first as the music worked into a mysterious oriental horn seemingly more eastern than manele.

An unfortunate technical glitch interrupted the Turkish music with painful feedback, but as the soundsystem was adjusted the Turkish drummer almost immediately stepped in to beat out the rhythm and the male dancers kept their composure without losing a step despite the annoyance.

When the girls came out, the music was working again and melodies turned a distinctly oriental flavor. The Turkish girls mesmorized the audience with a expressly sexy display as every little Romanian girl I could see was staring in wonder and mimicking each movement of their routine on the sidelines.

As the show went on, it seems the skeptical Romanians were being won over by the impressive skill of their Turkish guests.

Afterward, the local crowds gave one of the loudest displays of appreciation for the dancers from Turkey. They’d been accepted and respected by the gathered Romanians at Cantecele Oltului in Calimaneşti. And the Turks were happy to be well-received by their hosts.

And then came the brief announcement for the home team. The crowd became visibly and audibly excited to see the presentation of the homegrown dancers from Valcea, Oltenia, Romania. Flattered but not nervous, they came front and center to put on a very colorful and lively demonstration of local costume and folk dancing for the enthusiastic onlookers.

Hearty cheers rang out as their performance ended in a standing ovation. As soon as they exited off to the side, the organizers announced an interethnic, citywide, tourist-friendly hora. And indeed hundreds of folks linked arms as the live band played some really great muzica populare to motivate their feet. It seems the mayor was a bit preoccupied with inspecting the, er, “talent” of the girls…

After the large hora dancing, the festival was adjourned so dancers could rest up before the festivities continued a ways down the street at Casa Cultura, where vendors sold food and drink for the growing evening revelers. Not wanting to be left behind, we moseyed mai inainte pe strada la parcul cu the Cultural House…

During our first hitchhiking experience, Lemonmouse and I had travelled west of Braşov on highway DN1 which goes to Sibiu. Along the way, we passed the towns of Coldea and Fagaraş along with countless villages, open stretches of land, and highway repair projects. Somewhere around 130 kilometers in all.

We climbed out of the cab and found ourselves in the midst of a dust storm kicked up by all the vehicles zooming past our desolate location at the intersection where DN1 dumps into the north-south DN7 in a T.

We were in front of a no-name restaurant with a manele kiosk on the northeast corner of the roundabout. The southeast corner is home to a Petrom gas station with its Noroc mini-market, both situated adjacent to a hotel (presumably Petrom-owned).

The north side of the DN7 was a collection of semi-trucks, drunk old men at tiny beer kiosks, some Roma, and all manner of garbage strewn about the desert edge of the highway. In the distance, rolling green hills.

Passing us were a collection of nervous motorists unsure of how to handle the roundabout, tired truckers attempting not to kill anyone, and speedy luxury sports sedans sliding in and out of lanes without regard for other travellers (other than to look out in surprise at the sign of a heavily-bebackpacked American).

Let us take this moment to agree. Roundabouts are a travesty for dealing with intersections. For drivers not used to them, roundabouts can be downright deadly. When approaching a roundabout, the traffic never stops from any of the directions — be they three, as in this case, or five directions intermixing as I’ve personally driven through elsewhere.

Of course, it’s easy to see how they come to be. Roundabouts are archaic holdovers from one hundred years ago, when cars were a rare sight and the dangers of collision were quite limited as you were unlikely to pass anyone at all. As time has progressed, the roundabouts were foisted by the British onto their historical enemies as a clever population reduction scheme.

Drivers have often been able to adapt to the non-stop intersections even with the increasing number of automobiles on the road throughout the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. At some point, it was no longer the newly-initiated driver who became freaked out by the dozens of cars all gunning full speed toward a swirling mess of snarled traffic. It’s a holdover from a bygone era that needs to go away.

While Americans may not do everything right, we do have one of the better systems of public traffic. Intersections are logically governed by red and green lights, regulating a safe taking of turns based on traffic pattern timing and/or the addition of weight and motion sensors. It’s surprisingly effective and stress-free.

It was time to navigate our way across the multipoint ebb and flow of traffic. Ears and eyes alert, we skulked close to our targeted crossing point and scampered across like two stray dogs as soon as a momentary break in traffic exposed itself. Now, all that was left was to pick a spot ideally situated where traffic from two directions could see us at the same time.

Another tip for hitchhikers in Romania: be sensitive to the needs of your would be rescuers. Not only do you have to position yourself according to where town meets country, but you must take extra care to assess the stopability of would-be hosts.

If you pick an area that’s got no place to pull over, your odds of nabbing a ride are limited — especially in high traffic spots. Also, try to make sure the roadside section is long enough for a slow-stopping semi-truck to adequately be able to pull over.

Here, it was easy. Without much for commerce or housing development, there were long stretches of trash-covered dust for any vehicle to be able to pull over. Out came the bottle of water and a couple more apples. I hastily scribbled “VL” shorthand for Ramnicu Valcea as large as I could it onto a corner of the cardboard with a ballpoint pen. Lame, but it would have to do.

Ten or fifteen minutes of sweating like a pig under the scorching sun-on-blacktop heatwaves yielded a rough-and-tumble Dacia wagon. The car had a little difficulty stopping because it was loaded with dozens of boxes filled with heavy, mysterious items and its brakes hadn’t seen mechanical maintenance since 1974.

We trotted through the blowing desert toward the silver oasis humming in the distance. Lemonmouse threw open the backdoor and asked, “ce preţ la Valcea?” The driver replied that money wasn’t important, just as the last kindly driver had done.

We climbed inside the back, jostling our collection of bags around in a hurry so the driver could get back on the road to resume his trip. Another round of salut and mulţumim to keep up with polite protocol. There was a minute or two of uneasy silence before we settled in and ventured a conversation.

“Eşti din Valcea?”

“Nu. Slatina.”

Great news! Now I could ask him about the upcoming festival happening next weekend. I’d heard some vagaries about Calusul Romanesc and wanted to know more. Da, da. There’s an annual festival that’s very popular.

“In fact,” he explained, “it’s been recognized by Guinness World Records.” Supposedly, thousands joined in and put Slatina on the map. I’ve not been able to independently corroborate his description, however.

He went on to tell of how Slatina has only one-way streets downtown, which he complained was highly inefficient. To demonstrate, he told of the one time he just needed to go down the block a bit, so he ignored the direction and just did it.

Once inside the store, he was busy shopping when his kid tugged on his sleeve: Tati, there’s some people outside touching the car. Pissed off, he went outside to find local authorities writing him a ticket and affixing a boot to his wheel. Rather than argue with those insensitive jerks, he simply went back to shopping. You see, that’s why things were better under communism.

Ce zice?

Ba da! Cu siguranţa, things were much better under Ceauşescu. Since those traitors murdered our presidente, everything has really gone to the dogs. They’ve destroyed the entire nation and stole everything from the people. The ones who murdered Ceauşescu should be shot for treason. Romania is ruined now.

Adevarat, just like that the mood turned twistedly dark. Lemonmouse and I looked at one another in disbelief and silently acknowledged our realization that this old clunker was moving really slow. We shifted our bags around a bit and prepared for a l-o-n-g ride.

What you kids don’t understand is that all your complaining about the Romanian economy won’t do anything. See, under Ceauşescu everything was much better. Ceauşescu made sure everyone had a job. Ceauşescu made sure we all got to eat. Without Ceauşescu, the country is ruined.

The criminals who shot Ceauşescu need to be tried and punished. Then we can re-estabilish communism in Romania. Finally, all the young people will be much happier with guaranteed jobs and the nation can begin to repair itself back into something we can all be proud of.

I looked out the window to see the dark green forestry on the steep mountains cradling us along the Olt River in the valley below. We were passing beautiful monasteries and fortress ruins. Lemonmouse tried several times to pause him, so the information could be translated into engleza.

Despite my rough understanding, he wasn’t interested in my reception of knowledge. He simply talked over the top and directed all his argumentation to an uncomfortably squirming Lemonmouse. Sunt chiar straine. No doubt a filthy capitalist and there’s no reasoning with the bourgeois dogs. No, this was a Romanian-to-Romanian conversation about the future of our countrymen.

After they assassinated Ceauşescu, the traitors destroyed all the powerful national industries which plunged Romania from a mighty economic force into the doldrums of bankruptcy. What little they didn’t destroy, the stole and sold off to the foreigners. Now, there is nothing left for the Romanians. We’re slaves.

Slaves to the foreigners because the traitors destroyed Romania after they shot Ceauşescu and sold our powerful resources to non-Romanians. Ceauşescu would never do that. He provided jobs, food, and national pride. You know, that’s what we’re missing these days, right? National pride.

Now, mind you, he didn’t want to be racist. He doesn’t care about other ethnic groups one way or the other. But the young people of Romania have no pride in themselves because the communism is gone. Ceauşescu gave us pride and taught us who we were as a people. Now, everyone wants to speak Hungarian.

And what is it with these Hungarians anyway? They live here in our country and, under Ceauşescu, benefitted from the progress of communism all those years. But, they’re so ungrateful. They never bothered to learn Romanian. That’s the language of Romania and they should not be allowed to set up all these Hungarian schools. No other country would do that.

I forced my way into the frontseat broadcast by talking loudly. I wanted him to know I actually thought he had an interesting point to make there. In the United States, we seem to have social confrontations over the large population of immigrant Mexicans who don’t bother to learn English although it’s the language of our nation.

Now, I think it’s fine if they want to learn things like math and science in their native language, if they feel that makes learning easier for them and a school exists to provide that education. However, I also feel they should be required to study and master a high level of English language competency because it will help them better integrate and succeed in an English-speaking society.

Perhaps it is analogous to the Romanian situation with the significant Hungarian populations in Transylvania?

Heh. I got the impression that he had to fight back an aneurysm to keep himself from tearing my head off. His neck visibly stiffened and the knuckles around the steering wheel turned white. Impertinent foreign capitalist dog! With a deep inhalation, he ignored my translated contribution entirely.

Because under Ceauşescu… Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Eventually, we made it to Calimaneşti after more re-education and convinced him this was our real destination, not Valcea some kilometers away. His mood changed and he happily pointed out the various famous landmarks like the “beautiful” communist hotel constructed to give workers vacations at spa resorts or the national treasure of Calimaneşti’s natural spring water that was a favorite of Napolean III.

When it was time to exit the car, I decided to forego a photo opportunity lest I reveal my capitalist wealth. Instead, we gave him our hearty thanks and got ready to close the doors.

Just then, he broke into a huge smile and extended his open palm to indicate his willingness to receive 15 RON as payment for services…

Last week, I’d been threatening to finally get out on the road after what’s turned out to be a fairly busy summer. I had heard about Hora La Prislop which is a big gathering of muzica populare and traditional dancing in the mountains outside of Sighet in Maramureş. It provided the perfect chance to meet a friend in Alba Iulia.

Just before heading out the door, I learned to my surprise that the festival had already taken place on the weekend previous which left me in a lurch.

After more research into other festivals in Romania, I learned of two promoted events going on southwest of Braşov: one in Calimaneşti, a small town just outside of Ramnicu Valcea, and a second in Tismana, a village somewhat near Targu Jiu.

It was literally the eleventh hour as I hem-hawed over my choices and, ultimately, decided to postpone meeting my friend with almost no advanced notice to her. No doubt a revenge will be exacted.

The next morning I was up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Early bird, worm, et cetera. Lemonmouse was coming along with me which meant we were coordinating for arrival to the autogara (intercity bus station).

We first hopped aboard autobuzul cinci to hustle on over near the centru where we needed to transfer to local bus number four. Here we waited several minutes, nervously watching the clock, until we realized we’d better just grab a taxi for the last half of the journey or our scheduled bus to Ramnicu Valcea would leave the autogara without us.

I quickly identified which taxi driver looked like the nastiest SOB and we climbed inside, frantically communicating our need to make it to the bus station pronto. Turns out, I made a great choice. This guy made Dale Earnhardt look like a slug. I mean, we were flying past people like Jesse Owens! It was truly an adrenaline rush.

Tripping over ourselves to get out of the cab, we buzzed over to the collection of greyhound-size buses and shuttle vans only to reluctantly discover that the bus had already left as feared. It took us two or three minutes to double check by walking around re-asking all the drivers, in case the signage was wrong, and generally feel sorry for ourselves because no other bus would be departing for another ten hours.

There was no need to give up hope, however. Afterall, the main autogara is attached to the Braşov train station. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. The first conversation was over pretty quickly as the CFR ticketbooth lady simply denied that there was any train from Braşov to Ramnicu Valcea.

Knowing this to be wrong, we approached another window and talked with that lady. She informed us that while there might be a train on some other day, today would be an exception as there had been some kind of problems or accident (details were sketchy) around Bucureşti which prevented that train from arriving Braşov (and, thus, continuing on to Ramnicu Valcea).

Rats. What now? Cancel? Go home?

No, dear reader. You can have faith in your Romerican. He’ll tread along that fine borderline between quietus and necrosis. Just keep your popcorn buttered and your seat well-cushioned as all will be revealed in due time, my friends.

There was always the untried option. That method of the brave and broke. The activity which is illegal in America. Hitchhiking. But, across Romania? Surely, the only people who’ve done that are weirdos and hippies, right? Not at all.

Hitchhiking in Romania has a long tradition that goes back to the Ceauşescu times when a goodly number of people did not own automobiles. Those privilaged enough to have a maşina realized they could quietly earn a second income by taking on paying passengers on longer trips, even if it was illegal to make money the state didn’t pay you. The whole affair was kept pretty much on the down low.

Unlike the United States where picking up hitchhikers seems like a certain invitation to theft, rape and/or death, the government in Romania does not broadcast anti-ride sharing propoganda. Hence, a whole lot of regular folks think of it as an opportunity to meet a stranger and avoid the boredom of the open road.

Many of those enjoy the chance to pick up a couple bucks as the local custom seems to suggest you should offer minimal compensation for the ride. Not everyone is strict about it. Most even claim it’s not important, but they still seem eager to take it when you offer.

Hitchhiking travelers can pretty much count on the rich passing you by in their shiny BMW and Mercedes cars, maybe sneering at you in the process. There is an exception to this generalism if you are a single female or perhaps two females. I’ll let you judge for yourself what the motives of the luxury car driver might be.

What you can expect is a broad spectrum of humanity driving large semi-trucks, small trucks, vans, station wagons, and sedans from the last few decades who still embrace the whole sense of road comraderie and sympathize with your needs, willing to pull over and let you inside for a conversation to while away the kilometers of their own trip.

It is probably my past experience as a boy scout that gives me flashes of: Be Prepared. I recommend you do the same as well. What this translates into, boys and girls, is that one should stop by a magazin in order to procure o sticla de doi litre de apa (plata, va rog) and maybe a couple pieces of fruit. You might get hungry while waiting for a ride. Maybe even thirsty under the hot summer sun.

Now provisioned, we needed to make our way to whichever part of town held the highway going in the direction of Ramnicu Valcea. Clearly, one wants to place themselves strategically: at the very edge of town where all the cars who pass you are exactly taking the highway you want to travel down.

It took us a bit of tromping around to mosey our way to the correct area. Along the way I saw what, in romangleza, was the ultimate in ironic advertising.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen! The New Winchester 100s are not only named after a deadly weapon because we know what our product can do to you, but we also include, free of charge, an extra lung to replace the one you lost from cancer.

Upon arriving on the dusty edge where town meets nowhere, we noticed some friendly competition for rides. I saw a guy who reminded me of my friend Andrei, in appearance, so I felt like making a joke in passing. He was holding up a sign upon which the letters “SB” were marked in bold green magic marker. We snickeringly asked him if he’d let us borrow his sign if he got a ride before us.

Not only did he find it funny as well, but, lo and behold, he had a second identical sign inside his bag to give to us. Am noroc, nu? Pretty cool of him to share with us. We kept on walking a decent distance from him, allowing him first shot at passing motorists before cozying up to a light pole.

Note to travellers: use a sign! SB is the romaneşte shorthand for Sibiu. If you can communicate quickly to drivers where you are headed, and in their own ’slang,’ then you are far more likely to get picked up.

Here’s another tip: don’t do like the locals do. The gesture for getting a lift in romania is to wave one or two hands in the manner you might motion to a dog to lie down. Basically, the natives are flagging the car down with slow/stop symbolism. No, no, no.

The roadside can be a competitive place. Distance yourself from others. Hold a sign. And stick out your thumb, in the good ol’ American tradition. That differentiates you as a “westerner” and many drivers will be far more interested to find out if you speak English or German and, thus, give them a chance to practice their language skills or compare cultures.

We stood by the roadside, thumbs extended and sign placed at the height of drivers’ eyes, for approximately half an hour. At one point, our friend down the way who had given us his extra sign looked back at us and threw up his hands in disgust. WTF? I returned the gesture. Aşa e, nu?

His luck wasn’t as good as ours. I’ve been a bit too busy to shave lately and so I’ve started something of a full beard, which is rather reddish in color. Like a fly-fishing lure, it seems to attract some attention in a country where beards are extremely rare and red-hair even moreso.

Granted, I was also wearing a pair of camouflage shorts which helped distinguish me as a probable-American. Hikers’ backback in view and thumb firmly projected, it’s hard to mistake things. And, so, we landed ourselves a ride.

A very long and large semi-truck swerved dangerously close to us and the aching squeal of it’s brakes sung out under the burden of the sudden rebellion against Newton’s First Law. Yanking our heads around to confirm the stoppage, it was time to quickly hoist on the bags and rush over to the waiting cab.

We climbed inside. I sat on the floor in the center and Lemonmouse took the passenger seat. A quick exchange of salut and mulţumim, then we were off. The inside was immaculately clean and smelled quite new. Illustrations of the Christian faith were carefully placed in strategic areas. Jesus, Mary and their duplicates started down at me as Mercedes-Benz semi exerted its considerable power to get going quickly.

It turns out the guy was from Moldova on one of his many long journeys between Bulgaria and Czech. Or was it Turkey and Hungary? I forget exactly, but the driver regularly straddles nations like borders don’t even exist. We explained that our Sibiu sign was a little misleading as we only wanted to go most of the way, but needed to be dropped off at an interchange so we could get to Ramnicu Valcea on a different highway.

Conversations ran the gamut. We discussed the viability of visiting Transnistria, but apparently it isn’t advised in light of the Russian gun-running mafia. Together we tried to find Moldova’s place in the world as it seems trapped by Russia’s desire to have a buffer zone against EU political interests, although most inhabitants would much rather join Europe.

In fact, he had been a part of the Moldova army at the time of the Transnistria insurrection. Moldova was recently independent of the Soviet Union, when a small enclave of almost-entirely ethnic Russians suddenly announced the independence of Tiraspol and other areas along the Nistria River.

Moldova mobilized their troops to put down the insurgence and, presumably, should have been able to retake control of their territory. However, a combination of well-armed ethnic Russians and ethnic Ukrainians living in the region received a huge boost of support from the 14th Russian army, which successfully rebuffed the Moldovans.

The folks in Transnistria set up an unofficial government which remains steadfastly communist and in defiance of accepted world recognition of the Moldovan state. Animosity is high. But as long as the Russian government supports the gun-running, drug smuggling, human trafficking mafia ensconced there without sufficient interference from the West (who sees little incentive), then the government of Moldova is forced to tolerate the situation.

What about a future reunification with Romania, since Moldovans are, afterall, actually ethnic Romanians who were separated after World War II? Not gonna happen. It seems that the populace has been too russified and not just in a few borrowed words. For simple examples, they don’t see government quite the same way, they drink vodka instead palinca, and they’ve don’t know what branza barduf is.

Of course, no Texan is allowed to engage in a conversation without a talk about George Bush, the war in Iraq, American money, and references to Dallas. Our host was a well-rounded, studious type. He carefully contemplated the dialogue exchange and did not exhibit the Romanian habit of constantly talking over the top of you.

We lamented over the proliferation of nuclear weapons. In painstaking detail, we exchanged knowledge about the historical American mentality of “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death!” vis-a-vis the predominant feeling in (Eastern) Europe of “whatever, I just need bread.”

Frankly, the time whizzed by pretty quickly as we solved the world’s problems. Swell fellow. Once it was time to go, we offered 20 RON (compared to the price of a ticket to Sibiu of roughly 50 RON) and I shook his hand. Just before exiting, I decided to ask if I could take his photo for my blog and he agreed.

And so it went. Time to cross the busy intersection and reposition ourselves for the next leg of our journey…